


we shall meet in the place where there is no darkness

by labelledamesansmercy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, Cousin Incest, Drama, F/F, F/M, Looking for revenge, Romance, Trauma, at least trying to figure out how to be alive, everything is shit but they're still alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelledamesansmercy/pseuds/labelledamesansmercy
Summary: After politician Ned Stark and his family are killed, cousins Jon and Sansa by a terrible twist of fate manage to escape. Hunted, guilt-ridden, they part ways.Seven years later they meet again, she at the head of a powerful business in King’s Landing, him the leader of the most important crime organization in the North.Haunted by their past, having turned into something harder, darker to survive, are love and redemption still within their reach? For the night is dark and full of terrors and their enemies are many.





	1. space

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Jonsa fic and I hope you enjoy it! I have in the mind a multiple chapter fic, the next one should be arriving very soon.  
> The title is a quote from Orwell's 1984.

Sansa Stark did not give up easily. You didn’t go through life after having half of your family die, a string of bad boyfriends take advantage of you and building your fashion empire without endurance. She wasn’t going to let Jon Snow be an unfinished project. She couldn’t have him walk out of her life again.

 

Petyr had been a manipulative bastard, yes, but a brilliant one. Last she heard he had married well, an older woman in the Vale, a widow with a successful pharmaceutical business. _Good for him. Stupid of her._

 

He had been a teacher to her in many ways: not just in the political history course she’d taken during her first semester at King’s Landing University, but in a more general way, he’d taught her about life. How to survive in this world. She was almost thankful to him, when she didn’t wish him dead. _Men like him do not die. They take control of companies, empires, countries and statues are made in their honor, so that even after their bodies have left this earth their names carry on._

 

Littlefinger’s teachings made her stand in front of Jon Snow’s door at midnight. He wasn’t expecting her, of course. She had one of the men who worked for her follow him, watch him. Sandor had given her the address of the loft Jon occupied, in the Western part of King’s Landing two weeks before.

She had stared at the piece of paper, at the words carelessly written by her bodyguard. Her hound, as people who envied his being around one of the most powerful women in Westeros called him. He had asked if it wouldn’t be more prudent to take him with her, of course, but she’d refused. She had taken a liking to this tall man and his burned face and his sad eyes but there was no place for him in the space between her and Jon.

 

She breathed in and knocked three times on the wooden door. With other people she’d have waited until a proper hour and would’ve called, maybe suggested getting coffee. But she knew he wouldn’t be sleeping. His insomnia used to keep him up during his stressful days at school, before exams or waiting for results. A lifetime ago. There was no way he could be having full nights of sleep now. She knew she couldn’t.

 

The door opened entirely, fast, without any fear in the gesture. _He probably doesn’t have a peephole. Stupid boy._ She found herself immerged in a sea of gray. The space between them seemed insurmountable.

 

“Sansa.” Not a question, more like the answer.

 

“Hello Jon, might I come in?”

 

He didn’t say anything. His dark curls were still hanging around his face, messy, perhaps a bit longer than they were before. He had a beard now, and some lines on his face that she doubted he’d gotten from smiling. Jon Snow did not smile a lot, and when he did it seemed as if you had managed to force something out of him, as if he weren’t meant for happiness. Sansa used to delight in being able to steal a smile or two when they were young. Now she didn’t even have it in her to try. _From porcelain, to ivory, to steel. How you’ve changed Sansa Stark._

 

She was still standing in the doorway, unable to tell if they had been like this for a few minutes or hours. Jon moved, giving her just enough space to come in. Brushing against his arm, she could smell the same cologne her father had given him for his eighteenth birthday.

 

“Your home is lovely.”

 

It wasn’t, but Sansa had learned to sing her songs and recite her pleasantries.

 

His new home had bare walls, a black leather couch, boxes waiting to be unpacked hanging around. In the corner she saw a record player, a shelf with some books. It wasn’t really a home, nothing really personal was put on display. But it smelled like him.

 

“What are you doing here?” His voice was hoarse. He was looking at her, or rather at the space next to her ear. _He can’t even look me in the eye._

 

“I wanted to see how you were doing, Jon. It has been a while.”

 

He exhaled. He gestured towards the couch, inviting her to sit. She took off her coat and dropped it with her bag next to her. The couch wasn’t comfortable. Neither was his silence. She waited. He was in the kitchen, his back turned at her.

 

“Would you like something to drink?”

 

He seemed intent on playing the part of the good host tonight. _At least he let you in. You know he could’ve taken a look at you and closed his door._

 

“Yes, please. I’ll have some wine if there’s any.”

 

He didn’t answer. She was tired, and nervous and she hated it. There was a time when even silence between them was warm.

 

She got up and went to look at his records. Music had always been a passion of his. She remembered the hours he could spend locked up in his room, playing guitar, until Robb got tired of hearing him practice the same chord again and again and barged in with a “For fuck’s sake Snow, you’re getting out of this room and we’re going outside ‘cause if I have to hear this guitar one time again, I swear I’ll throw it out the window and you with it !” It usually ended with Jon laughing and the two of them barging out the front door.

Catelyn shouted out a “Be careful boys” and Sansa wondered as to what exactly seventeen-year-old boys got up to when they were alone.

 

Of course there was a vinyl of _The World Won’t Listen_. A smile came upon her lips. The brooding, slightly emo Jon was in his youth had had a taste for Morrissey’s voice. She put it on.

 

“I would ask you how you found me but then again, I’m not sure I wanna know."

 

They were really doing this. The light was dim and it made his skin look as soft as she remembered it to be. He had put a single glass of white wine on the coffee table. He wore black, of course. If she made an effort, she could almost pretend they were in the small apartment she had rented in the name of Alayne Stone. She could almost pretend they still had time and the world had only just crashed under their feet. This took her back to when no words needed to be spoken and the sound of flesh against flesh made her feel less alone.

 

“You came back to King’s Landing, Jon. How could I not have known?”

 

“Oh, did I need your permission too to come here?”

 

There was no gentleness in his tone.

 

“Are you the new Cersei? I guess you must be, because all I’ve been hearing is how you’ve got the entire town wrapped up around your finger. I bet you also have your little spies all around. That’s who told you I was here, right?”

 

He had actually dared pronounce the name of that woman.

 

“It doesn’t matter how I know you are here. What are you even doing in this place?”

 

She wasn’t going to let him know that she was affected by his words. He got up from his chair. Morrissey’s deep voice resonated against her ears. He came close to her, heat radiating from his body. She didn’t know whether she wanted to take a step back or to come crashing into him. She chose not to move.

 

“I have some things to settle here. Don’t worry, it won’t be long before I’m back north, princess. Maybe then you won’t have to see my face for another seven years.”

 

It stung. If she had been that girl still, tears would already be streaming down her face.

 

_To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die_

 

Yes, and they almost had.

 

She took her things and made for the door.

 

“Goodbye, Sansa”

 

She didn’t turn around.


	2. snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your response to the first chapter was really lovely and heart-warming! I hope you will enjoy this one too, as we slowly delve into the world I imagined for this fic. I plan on having chapters from different character's POV but don't worry, we will see plenty of Jon and Sansa. 
> 
> If you wish to see where Hardhome is located I suggest taking a look at the interactive map of Westeros available online. Also, Jon's life there is kind of inspired by the way Will Graham was living before everything went to hell for him in Hannibal.

The sun hit his face around 7 am. There were worse ways to wake up for Jon Snow. It took him a moment to recognize the room, his room now. The walls were white and completely bare, the sun managed to give off warmth, even though it was only April. Not a thing that happened north of the Wall. He missed his house, the pure snow covering everything around the land. There was a quietness, a tranquility that came with it. Every sound was muffled, even Ghost’s running around.

 

_Even your enemies coming to get you_.

 

But Jon Snow didn’t have enemies anymore. There was no reason for anyone to want to kill a simple man living in a small city in the coldest part of Westeros. And the people who might’ve had something against who he once was, well, they were as dead as the Starks.

 

_This is a new world, yes. A world I don’t intend to be a part of._

 

He went to the kitchen, eager for the coffee that would help him chase off the remains of the night. He could get a good six-hours at the moment. Even seven when he was particularly tired. The pills Sam had given him helped when nightmares managed to wake him up. He remembered the nights spent fighting off the lure of sleep when he’d first arrived at Hardhome and the waking up screaming from visions of blood splattering on walls, of women’s cries muffled by pillows. He ran a hand through his curls.

 

_Way to start off the day, Snow. The dead will be dead whether they are remembered at 7 am or not._

 

He made himself some coffee, his usual oatmeal and went to seat on his couch. Habits were hard to break, specially comforting ones. He did miss having Ghost curl up next to him, though. But he knew Pyp and Edd would be taking good care of him. The couple would return the dog without a scratch, but probably with a few pounds more. He could live with it.

 

The snow would probably have melted by the time he went back to Hardhome. A pity, it was still one of the things he liked most. He had trouble remembering anything bad that happened when it was snowing. People tended to prefer the cover of a spring’s night to do their killing.

 

_April is the cruelest month._

 

He looked at the coffee table where a single untouched glass of white wine remained. The only proof he had that last night was real.

_Seven years._ Seven years and he could barely recognize the girl who had stood in his arms as he promised to love her wholly, promised it to her and to the old gods and the new. How her hair had shined, then, burning fire against milk-white skin. No word needed to be pronounced, he’d just put his mouth on her skin and vowed to worship her. They were as good as married that night, that is if you believed that you could give yourself wholly to one person without saying so, with the simple belief that they understood you.

 

He no longer had that belief. He’d killed the boy he was that night. Killed him a hundred times, when he went back to Winterfell that last time and crossing the Wall and again and again at Hardhome. It hadn’t stopped him from rushing back at the sight of Sansa Stark.

 

Of course the idea of seeing her again had crossed his mind. One part of him had hoped so, probably the part that thought on bad days that if the pain really was insurmountable, there would always be a quick fall from the wall, a certain death to be had. That part had been fairly quiet for the past year and a half but he knew it wasn’t totally gone. _And probably never will be. You will have to live with it, or die by it._

 

Survivor’s guilt, she’d called it. That woman in red that Sam had recommended to him when he’d seen Jon’s hands shaking at the sight of blood coming out of Samwell’s palm. He had always been clumsy but had hopes of improving in the kitchen. _She’s good, Jon, really good. A bit odd perhaps, but you should call her._ A paper with her number on it had been put into his hand and Sam had never spoken of that incident again, although the next time they’d had dinner it was Chinese takeout. It was curious, the things Melisandre seemed to understand and almost astonishing the things she’d gotten out of Jon when he knew he wasn’t someone who talked easily. Seeing her helped.

 

She hadn’t touched her glass, actually. He hadn’t even known she liked white wine. As a girl she drank juice and a glass of champagne at parties when Catelyn allowed it. As Alayne she drank whisky or vodka straight from the bottle.

 

She had actually put _The Smiths_ on. A bitter reminder of a time they dared not speak of.

 

He wondered if he’d see her again after last night. A sigh escaped his lips. _Of course you will, things are never as simple as driving a beautiful cold girl away_. That coward part of him was still hoping that he could escape King’s Landing with what was left of his sanity, though.

* * *

 

He arrived at the hospital around 10 a.m., about 30 minutes after Sam had called him, out of breath, to say that the baby was on its way. Why Gilly had insisted on giving birth in the capital Jon didn’t understand but Sam had said a few words about fears that she had and possible complications in that quiet voice of his. He knew he wouldn’t be getting more answers out of his friend.

 

Sam Tarly was one of the best doctors north of the Wall and Jon had no doubt that in a few years time he would be one of the very best in Westeros. But, Sam was not a OB-GYN and he was pacing in the hallway when Jon arrived.

 

“Jon!”

 

They hugged and he felt that his friend was sweating his way out of his shirt. _Nerves._

 

“How is Gilly doing, Sam?”

 

“They’re in the middle of it already. This is happening very fast, the baby wasn’t due for another two weeks Jon, and I … I can’t lose her.”

 

It hit him, the way he’d said it. His friend’s green eyes were resolutely fixed on his and he knew Sam meant it. There was no part of him that wished to know what would happen to Samwell Tarly if his wife didn’t survive the birth.

 

“Sam. Everything is going to be okay. _It will_.”

 

A few hours later and a smiling and tired Gilly and a Samwell Tarly crying his heart out put the little baby Sam in his arms. _Godfather_ , he ushered.

 

A genuine smile made its way on Jon Snow’s face. He didn’t remember such a happy day.

 

_I will protect you, yes, little Sam, from all that I could not be protected from. I vow you shall not suffer while I breathe on this earth._

 

He wondered if Rhaegar Targaryen had taken a similar vow when he was born. If he had, he had miserably failed. He wondered if Ned Stark had taken a similar vow when he’d taken him in. _And all that I could not do, you shall. A curse given from son to father to son to father to son._

 

Baby Sam cried for his mother’s arms. At the sight of the family in front of him Snow’s heart wanted to break, both from happiness and longing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will probably have recognized "april is the cruelest month" as a line from T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland, I love this poem and some of what it represents is a good fit for this fic in my opinion.  
> I would love to hear what you think of this window into Jon's life.  
> In the next chapter we shall be reunited with Sansa, until then !


	3. margaery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is chapter 3, introducing the lovely Margaery Tyrell ! I've been having much fun writing her and I hope you will love her as much as I do. This fic is still Jon/Sansa but this is slow burn, lovely readers, and if I can promise you that they will reunite at some point, I also have to say it won't be soon and it won't be easy.

She only slept with a gun on her nightstand on bad days, really. She could sometimes go weeks without needing to do so, like the time she had adopted a pup at the local shelter or the weeks after meeting Margaery Tyrell.

  


The girl, well _woman_ really since she was a few years older than her, had been a surprise. The first good one in a long time. The business had already started to grow, Sansa went from working in her small apartment -rented this time in her own name, never again would she use the pseudonym Alayne Stone, _she prayed the gods every day she wouldn’t have to_ \- to actually hiring five girls and teaching Jeyne, sweet lovely Jeyne who reminded her so much of someone she once was, to supervise them. It was a blessing from the gods that her mother had insisted on her learning how to stich, and even more so that she was actually good at it. She remembered the early days of learning how to wield a needle and the blood prickling from her lovely pale fingers. With the tales of her childhood in her mind she’d started pretty fast to draw the dresses she imagined the princesses to wear and by eleven actually moved on to create them. It wasn’t much of a thing at first, but Mother had been happy to oblige to delivering the fabrics and sewing machine when she saw that it kept Sansa’s attention long enough to not have to tell her to _stop bothering your brother, you shouldn’t be playing with boys like that, you’re becoming too old for that Sansa, where are your manners, let Jon and Robb play war, you’ll be much cozier in the house_.

  


Yes, her mother had somewhat antiquated views on what it meant to be a girl. Views that Arya had dismantled and fought against at every turn. But really, the stitching was something that had closed to saved her life.

  


A year and a half after starting _Stark Designs_ , Margaery Tyrell had barged in the small rooms she rented in a shitty but inexpensive part of town with those high heels and the smell of Chanel number Five trailing after her, _the same perfume Mother used to put on,_ and had demanded Jeyne that she be taken to her boss. When the girl had tried to tell her that Ms. Stark was very busy at the moment and _might I take a message_ , well, she had no idea what Margaery had actually answered but the girl had come into what she tried to make look like a proper office even though the money was still tight, without knocking and with incoherent apologies and Sansa’s mouth had formed a perfect ‘O’ when Margaery came in and closed the door to Jeyne’s face.

  


“My name is Margery Tyrell and I am here to help you.”

  


Sansa looked at the drawer she'd opened, at her hand hovering over the small gun inside of it and at the woman in front of her. She had the softest face she’d ever seen, her skin light and pink, her eyes chocolate brown and even though at the moment a fierce determination was painted on her face, she _knew_ her smile could melt ice. Her sand blond waves caught the light in a way that made her catch her breath. She did not close the drawer.

  


“And what exactly has given you the impression that I need your help Miss Tyrell?”

  


Polite, of course. _Don’t show surprise, ever, don’t show anything if you can help it._ She couldn’t remember whether Cersei or Petyr had taught her that. 

  


Margery looked around the room, at the second hand carpet and the light bulb that needed to be fixed and the shitty view on the deserted street and then at Sansa.

  


She recognized the look. It said, _you’re way too pretty for something like this_. It also said _I can save you if you wish_. She’d seen this look before, in the eyes of men who couldn’t see past the pretty dresses and soft smiles. _I don’t need to be saved and yes this room could be better, but at least notice the vase I put in here. Yellow roses. Pretty ones too, don’t look at me like that. I've been doing well, much better than everyone thought I would in this economy and the business is still growing._

_  
_

“Would you care for a cup of tea, Miss Tyrell? I’m sure Jeyne can bring whatever you'd prefer-“

  


She had already stood and was ready to make a graceful exit if only Jeyne could come _right back_ when Margery Tyrell reached out and grabbed her arm.

  


“With all due respect, Miss Stark, I don’t give a fuck about your tea. What I’m here to offer you is vengeance. Vengeance and better offices, really.”

  


Sansa hadn't been able to move and the woman's hand was still on her arm. She had to count to ten before being able to meet the eyes and she swore she saw a flash of green but no, still chocolate staring back at her. Margaery let go of her softly, her skin almost caressing a “sorry’ in returning to sit at her lap. _A year ago I would still be shaking from an unrequited touch. This is progress, you know._

_  
_

Sansa closed the drawer, the idea of the gun seeming useless against the woman in front of her.

  


“Let’s start with better offices, shall we?”

  


Margaery smiled, all white teeth and grace and Sansa had to smile too.

* * *

  


As it turned out, Margaery Tyrell was filthy rich, yes. And at first Sansa had planned to milk her for all her worth. Oh nothing mean no, but the woman did say she wanted to invest in _Stark Designs_ and how could Sansa say no to new money coming in when it would be good for the business and she knew that without the company she probably wouldn’t bother coming out of bed most mornings.

  


But she also knew that in this life nothing came for free. _The don’t give, little dove, they bargain. It means they want something from you too, whether it be to get a go between your legs, or some of the trust fund mommy and daddy put aside for you or your name._ She knew Robert Baratheon had taken all three things from Cersei.

  


_In this world nothing pure can exist. Not pure evil and certainly not pure good._  Cersei was the closest thing to evil she had ever seen. 

  


What Margaery wanted -Margaery with all the softness of her movements and the sticky honeyed sweetness of her voice- was vengeance. She had described it in general terms, it was _they killed your family, I know, and I have also lost people too, we can get them back for what they did to us, I know we can. We can regain some control in our lives, and power too._

_  
_

Had Margaery spoken to her right after all of her family had been obliterated by men with guns and clear orders to not let any of them alive, _you better not come back if they’re not all dead, or you will be_ -she didn’t know how exactly Cersei had ordered the execution of the Starks but that sounded like something she’d say, enough to make them fear her but still be efficient- she would’ve found someone willing to listen, for even back then Sansa Stark had not lost all hope.

  


She had hope that they could find the monsters that did this to them, hope that they could make them pay, _yes, they would die for this_. She thought that she might be able one day to go back to her home, to Winterfell and rebuild it and reclaim it so that her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren might also grow old there and see the godswood and never ever live with  fear the way she had.

  


She also had hopes of another kind. She thought she could still have love. Jon was the one left standing when everything burned and she held onto him like her life depended on it, because it did. They had walked out of there alive and she thought that as long as they had each other they could survive anything. As if not dying had made them immortal. She remembered the shitty apartment they went into hiding for two months and how hungry they’d been for each other, and how broken. _As long as we’re together nothing else can happen. I promise._

_  
_

He had looked at her like a stranger the other night when he’d opened that door. She could’ve died at the sight of it. That is, if there was something inside of her that could still die.

  


But no, she didn’t want revenge at all when Margaery had first come to her. She was still trying to survive, with all the chaos surrounding her and the uncertainty. She was, for the first time in her life, working for money, because they had taken that too from her. She had been erased even though they’d never found her body. It was better to have her dead, it made it easier for Cersei’s men to kill her quietly. Of course, they hadn’t even needed to go out and look for her. She had literally run to the lion’s den. What a stupid girl she’d been, still believing in justice after what had happened.

  


She got out of her thoughts when a hand came up to her and wrapped itself around her waist. She turned. Margaery is always beautiful in the morning, all sleepy eyes and creamy skin. She always slept naked and Sansa had gotten used to having their limbs intertwine in the night. Without even thinking about it her mouth was on her and the girl's softness against her. She’s already wet when she takes one of Marge’s nipples in her mouth and they tangle with the bedsheets before throwing them on the ground. The morning light makes her blond hair shine so bright and she loves that it becomes a mess in her sleep, strands pointing in every single direction. It only takes a few minutes but with Marge’s mouth on her neck and two of her fingers deep inside her cunt she comes, a fistful of the blond hair in her hand.

“Good morning Sansa.”

  


It was a good morning indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I'm very happy to hear your thoughts on this chapter !   
> Hopefully you're getting a clearer view of the world I'm trying to paint here. With each new chapter something about their past and how exactly Jon and Sansa ended up where they are will be revealed.   
> In the next few chapters you will also get a more general view of Westeros and of the society they live in, because after all, everyone is at soment extent a product of the world they were raised in.  
> I also have a pinterest board for this story, and could link it if you were interested ? Let me know.


	4. theon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I apologize for the very delayed update, but life got a bit crazy and I went away for a couple of weeks.  
> Now, I hope you will enjoy this chapter, the longest one thus far in this story. It's crazy how those characters can take you by surprise. This is not how I thought this story would go when I started writing it, but Jon and Sansa seemed to have different opinions. So, here it is.  
> And also excuse all of this political talk about Westeros, but I am a law student and this is the kind of things you pay attention to when writing a modern Westeros.

It was the first time that Jon Snow was setting foot in King’s Landing and the city was just as great, capricious and luxurious as he’d been told. The capital was the heart of the country, always had been since the Kingdoms had been reunited. Business was thriving here, children were being born and people falling in love. That’s what King’s Landing sold. The best Westerosi experience.

He hated it. Everything was loud, all of the time. The winter was also ending there, which meant that in no time he would be sweating all day. He hoped he’d be gone before that happened. The people seemed to be all artifice, dressed impeccably… After the birth of Little Sam, Jon had stayed with the Tarlys for a few days. Helping the new parents with the baby, enjoying the company of his friends. Their home there was a warm one, even though it was temporary. The way Gilly smiled at her new-born and the way he could see Sam looking at them like they had the world in their hands was beautiful. But he also knew he could not stay there forever. _For their happiness is not mine and it does not do to think of parents I cannot remember._

They’d be in King’s Landing for a couple of weeks more, at most. Gilly was still adamant on taking the baby to the best doctors there, to make sure that there was not a single thing wrong with the child. Jon didn’t understand where that fear came from, but he knew that in this life you had to do everything you could to protect the people you loved before they were taken from you. That much he knew.

There was also the question of the other matter that had brought him to King’s Landing in the first place. The matter he had never mentioned, not before leaving Hardhome, not even to Sam. _You want revenge, boy. Admit it, revenge is the only kind of closure you’ll ever get._

He had tried to forget it while with the Tarlys, in the same way he had tried to forget the Starks after Sansa left. _Of course_ it didn’t work. If the past was just a story we told ourselves, his past was a tragedy graved in his mind, his body, his soul. There was no walking away from it. _Even though I tried to run._

_You don’t come that far North if you’re not running from something_. That had been what Ygritte told him when they’d first met. In the dark he had seen her fiery hair and thought of someone else. The pub was noisy and the smell of beer being split and of people lighting their cigarettes inside even though they shouldn’t still filled his nostrils. She had smiled that wolf smile of hers, looking like she might swallow him whole. Later that night, she _had done just that_. Since then he had been failing and succeeding at loving the woman. But she was his, and he was hers in some way.

She was also hundreds of kilometers away from him at the moment. And Sansa was practically at arm’s reach now. Had it ever really been about the physical distance, though? He remembered living on the same floor as hers in Winterfell for years, separated only by the doors to Robb’s rooms. All those years without longing to touch her body. Oh how he missed his youth. Oh how he had corrupted it, and her too.

There had been a pool and a party where alcohol was flowing more freely than ever for the young Starks. Robb was celebrating his birthday. They were the center of their own little world that day and it hadn’t seemed wrong in that light, with the stars as their only witnesses to have his hand caressing the pale, pale skin of his cousin’s thigh. He had actually dared put his mouth on hers and she had been soft and pliant and so sweet and he knew right away how he wanted _more_. It was all his fault, really. They said there had been a few oddities like that on his father’s side of the family. Brothers and sisters, nephews and aunts. He didn’t want to know whether it was true.

The concern at hand was now getting hold of one of the men who had stolen his life. Theon Greyjoy. They had once been a trio, him and Robb and Jon. Theon had been a friend on some days, though more often a rival, desperate to keep his place next to Robb. He remembered how they glowed then, all three of them, how at every party the eyes would wander to them. Money, power seemed to do the trick. He also knew that the way they looked didn’t hurt. How Theon would hold his head high and choose the prettiest girl to fuck in a corner, shamelessly, never caring whether they were watched or not. How Robb would appreciate the looks and flirt with everyone, boy or girl it had never mattered to him. How himself couldn’t help but ravel in it, the attention, the shiny perfectness of his whole world. How on these nights he could almost believe himself to be a complete being.

Really, it wasn’t perfect at all but he had never really seen the cracks until everything had already crashed. Now there was more clarity to it. How Theon had never been blood, not really. How his father had lost everything they owned until the shame was so great he’d hung himself. How the proud Theon had really been raised thanks to the kindness of strangers and how the life he led could be taken away at any moment if the Starks wished to. How he longed to be them, to be loved, respected for himself. To have a family of his own and a home and love, yes, love.

Jon understood it more than everyone else. They shone so bright it had hurt his eyes staring at them, with envy. He was their kin, yes, but he’d never have what they had in each other. A stable home with a mother and father and siblings that were truly his. A loving mother who ran charities and made people bow their heads in respect when she entered a room, an admirable man of a father that had turned one of the poorest regions of Westeros into something big, something that he could be proud of. Beautiful children, and smart and kind. He saw it all so clearly because he’d never truly belonged.

The fact that he understood didn’t mean he forgave Theon for the betrayal. He had been Judas and Eve, the turncloak and the loved one. _The weak one, always._ Maybe Jon could’ve felt compassion for him if Theon had been the hero of some story. They said that he’d suffered at the hands of enemies, that he’d somehow lost some part of himself along the way. That maybe he had paid for his sins after all. That didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about seeing the life leave Theon Greyjoy’s body.

Jon Snow had contacts. The type of people you didn’t really want your kids to hang out with. _You’re one to speak, Snow. Most people wouldn’t let their kids hang out with you either. Not if they knew what you had done._

The Brotherhood, they called themselves. They’d been petty thieves, occasional liquor store robbers, but ones that had risen after all hell broke loose. Once it became clear that their dear institutions were far from being all-powerful, when the men who were supposed to look out for their country, Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon, _Ned Stark_ had died, Westeros had seemed to lose every sense of moral compass that the country was supposed to possess.

Jon remembered the history lessons he’d taken, almost word for word. Eddard Stark used to tell them that a country that has forgotten its history was a country ready to die. _Not if it knows how to fight had answered Arya._ The sweet girl. The sweet, brave, dead girl. He had had a sister once. Something in him almost wanted to say he’d had two. Almost.

They said that their country was a kingdom once. Well, truly seven kingdoms which has been reunited by some great conquerors a long, long time ago. But eventually, Westeros had followed the same path modern countries took once its population became less poor, more educated and infinitely more acute to the injustices and privileges which existed. The fact that some blond haired mad queen had reigned and killed her subjects when it suited her had been the last straw. The country rebelled and monarchy fell. It took some time to rebuild it and regimes had risen and fallen, liberties had been acquired and lost, wars had been fought and peace had come. They’d finally settled on the system that had worked until now.

Each Land had a certain degree of autonomy, the North being the one with the most independence, due to its long history of refusing to submit to a central state. Dorne came close second. But all in all, it worked. They had their differences, yes, cultural mainly, but they respected each other. They’d built a great country together.

Westeros was governed by an Adviser to the People. It wasn’t something that could be passed on from generation to generation, in theory, this title, even though it happened. It wasn’t monarchy, not really, but it was not the common democracy either. The Adviser was elected indirectly, by the most powerful women and men in the country, those who represented each of the seven Lands. The Adviser thereby chosen would serve for seven years, with the role of primarily unifying the most important points of legislation between the Lands, controlling the armies and setting the tone for the direction the country in its whole should take.

 Each seven years the people had the possibility of deciding, through a national vote, whether they wanted to keep the Adviser or not. It was a great tool, yes. _It had also not stopped Aegon Targaryen from being head of the country for near thirty years until his death._ Westeros was a hybrid system of a unique democracy. It sometimes seemed that the Gods flipped a coin each time, deciding whether the years to follow would be great or terrible for the people.

All of that, and much more had been the kind of information a child living with the Stark family was supposed to know. It was what they learned at school, yes, but also in the chambers of the one they all called Father, whether aloud or in their minds.

He remembered how Bran could recite the names of all their rulers, probably in his sleep too, the way Arya took delight in talking about the revolutionaries, the great army leaders that made regimes they deemed unfit fall. Robb was all things Northern, through and through. Ned Stark had started grooming his son to fall into his footsteps as Warden of the North early on. Sansa was the peculiar one, when it came to that, really. She never really said it aloud but he could see it in her eyes, Tully blue, ocean blue, _dark, dark when desire filled them_ , he could see that what made pretty thoughts appear in her head were the old tales of rulers good and kind, of queens of love of beauty, of great men tearing apart their own kingdoms to lay them at the feet of their beloved. _Here, here, this is for you. All for you._ The other children, Arya specially, mocked this odd interest of hers. _These are all fine stories Sansa, but silly stories made for silly girls_. He remembered perfectly the dark-haired girl say it, the way her mouth had curled wickledly, the small nod of amusement Bran had given while Rickon was sleeping in his arms, the fond smile Robb and Ned had on while the fireplace was burning. The house had burned too, but that had come later, much later.

Jon thought there was strength to that, in a way. That there had to be a bloodthirst to satisfy to be able to take an entire bloody kingdom into fair white hands, to be able to request that in the first place. _And Sansa was never stupid._

And then there was a car that almost ran him over, a driver angrily honking and Jon pushed back onto the sidewalk. _You’ll get yourself killed stupidly by staying in your thoughts, Snow._ Even if these were nice ones.

The Brotherhood had told Jon of Theon’s location a week ago. There’d been rumors, before that, of the young Greyjoy’s presence in the South. Not that he’d dare show his face in the North after what he had done, of course. But rumors were rumors and it hadn’t been the first time he’d heard things. A man in White Harbour had said things about seeing Arya Stark, about the girl having somehow escaped the fire and fled to Bravos. It took all of Jon’s strength to kill the remnant of hope inside of him. Arya Stark was dead. The man had followed her in the grave after that.

So, he’d had his men go south and look at the case. He didn’t expect the small group of men who took care of things farther south, the Brotherhood as they liked to call themselves, to come back to him with photographs of Theon. Dandarrion had followed him, he’d said, for a week. He had no doubt that the man living under the name of Reek was the one Jon was looking for. He knew where he lived, where he shopped, where he worked.

_He doesn’t seem to do much, Snow. Works, eats, sleep, rarely goes out. We haven’t seen anyone else go to his place._

_Good, he’d thought. He shouldn’t even be doing that. Not when they’ve all turned to ashes._

That was why he’d come to this shitty city and its heat and all these people he couldn’t trust. There was a debt that needed to be paid. _In fire and blood._

The building where Greyjoy’s apartment was located was a shitty one. In the street he could see boys selling drugs and not even hiding from the act, even though the sun was still high in the sky.

He got up to Theon’s door and almost knocked. The face the man would’ve made upon seeing Jon Snow might’ve been good enough to make him smile. But, no, surprising him inside would be sweeter.

He opened the door. The apartment was small and the curtains were closed. There was a smell of curry in the air and Jon saw some plates in the sink, waiting to be washed. In the semi obscurity, he searched for the man. The kitchen was empty as was the living room. The bathroom also. Remained the bedroom. Jon felt the barrel of his gun. Only to be used on Theon in case of an emergency, of course. What he planned to do with him wouldn’t require the use of a gun until much, much later.

The walls were all bare and it reminded him of his own apartment in King’s Landing. Apartment he would be leaving as soon as he got his hands on Greyjoy and handled the few business he had left in the city.

Suddenly there was a sound, in the bedroom, hushed, like something falling on the floor. _Or someone._ A voice told him something wasn’t quite right. He shook the feeling. _It’s only Theon._ Nonetheless, he tightened his grip on the gun when he pushed the door open.

There, Theon was on the bed. Tied up. With duck tape over his mouth. Two pairs of eyes stared at him and suddenly three guns were drawn in the small space. There was a man standing there. Tall, _no huge_ , with his hair drawn back and a burn on the side of his face. His eyes were murderous. And then, Sansa.

_Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa_

‘Why the _fuck_ are you pointing a gun at me?’ He shouted, the illusion of control out of reach.

‘I could ask you the same question, Jon.’ Her voice was steady but he knew her and she was just as surprised as he was.

She was all red hair, cascading down her shoulders, down her back, and dressed in black. They were matching today. She was still looking at him, as was the beast of a man on her side.

_What is Sansa doing here? Why does she have a gun? Who the fuck is he?_

And suddenly Theon gasped and started to jerk around on the bed, trying desperately to get free.

‘Stop pulling that shit, Greyjoy! Or I’m gonna cut those fucking legs off.’ The man seemed to badly want to execute his threat, too.

The giant and Sansa shared a look. There was something there, a type of understanding it seemed, and Jon had to swallow hard at the sight of it.

And then there was a gunshot.

The last thing Jon Snow saw before the black sank into him was a pair of sad blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dears comments are all that I live for this days. Kidding, but of course I would to know what you think of all of it and hearing from you boosts my motivation to get the next chapter out earlier.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it as much as I loved writing it. It would be lovely to hear your thoughts!


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